


Fiction

by InsaneVoice



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Psychological Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2015-02-25
Packaged: 2018-11-30 00:03:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11451828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsaneVoice/pseuds/InsaneVoice
Summary: A short story that is basically an ending to a generic horror movie(along with so much inner dialogue it comes out of your ass).--"He advances slowly, carrying that same crooked smile..."





	Fiction

**Author's Note:**

> This is an old work made for my 10th grade English class. I started and completed it the day it was due (I never did homework at home like I was supposed to) and basically packed as much detail into it as I could so it didn't look like I wrote it during any little free time available before my 4th period started. Good Times. (And as I was mainly aiming for quantity--a.k.a. the minimum word count--don't expect this piece of shit to have any quality).
> 
> Fun Fact: My teacher let the class come up with the prompt and it was mildly disturbing considering it was the words _Hospital, syringe,_ and _handcuffs_. Yeah... I have no idea what the fuck was wrong with us or why the ever-loving-fuck our teacher actually let us go through with it.

My breath was coming out in gasping pants. He was here lurking in the shadows. Waiting to find an opening. I quickly duck into a random room within the maze that is this hospital. I feel faint. My wrists are a swollen and bloody mess trapped inside rusted handcuffs. I have to be quiet, I can’t let him find me. To help me. He keeps trying to tell me he won’t hurt me. That all he wants to do is help me. Help with my alcohol problem. Liar. I can hear him in the hall. I panic. I need to find a weapon and fast. I spot a syringe on the table a few feet in front of me to the left. Thankfully my wrists are bound in front of me or I would be done for. I get to the table just as he bursts through the door. He smiles when his eyes find mine. I shiver.

I hold up the syringe at him with trembling hands. I stutter out, “S-stay away f-from m-m-me”. He advances slowly, carrying that same crooked smile, like a predator stalking its wounded prey. Confidently but still cautiously, knowing what the outcome is going to be. I hate just how well that description fits this situation. To him, all I am is prey to be played with before he darts in for the final kill. I hear voices echoing from behind the rusted door. A sudden flash shines through the dusty windows from down the hall. Help. I don’t realize I screamed the word and the sound makes me flinch. Like a bird of prey, he descends upon me.

The struggle is a blur of adrenaline and fear drove motions. What I do remember are hands. Hands pinning me to the ground and a sharp pain to the base of my skull then nothing but the eerie ink of unconsciousness. When I awake I’m surrounded by the stench of a hospital and for a moment I feel a cold chill freeze me like the sinister hands of death are dancing along my spine like some morbid ballet until the color of the room registers with my trembling fight or flight instincts. White. The room shines with a harsh whiteness that can only belong to that of a sterile environment everyone associated with that of a hospital. A working hospital, not the broken, dark hell I was forced to limp my way through. Just the thought makes me want to purge my jittery stomach of all its fluids.

Feeling like a shaking leaf caught in a blizzard I try to push my exhausted body in the upright position, the action hindered by my weakened strength and the handcuffs chaining me to the safety bar on the left side. I feel a sense of fluttery pride at the feeling of accomplishment the small action gives me. I notice a call button about the size of a TV remote located on the thin top sheet of the standard issue sheets found in every sanitary cage. I grab it and press the big red button labeled ‘HELP’. A woman’s distorted voice drifts out through the small speaker located on the back. I ask her if I can see my doctor and the woman replies that she would notify him. Unable to do anymore I stare out the blinds in the small window to my left at the dull and cloudy sky until the doctor arrives. Why did this happen?

Everyone has their likes and dislikes. Some people like their phones. I like the impressions on the metal coins you push into the slots on payphones. He likes to talk face to face so his dark eyes can drill into your very being making you as uncomfortable as possible. Some people dislike the fizz of soda prickling at their tongues but that doesn’t stop them from chugging it down despite it being tooth decay in a bottle. I dislike the burn of alcohol searing its way down my windpipe like the foul acid it is but that doesn’t stop me from trying to flush out my feelings with it. He dislikes the clear-looking liquid a normal human has to drink in order to survive because of the way it hides bacteria under the cover of innocent looking water but that doesn’t stop him from doing the same by twisting your heart with a few kind words and well-timed smiles. Everyone has their addictions.

His name is Bert Toms Vey. I am the person who loved him.

When the doctor came into my room 15 minutes later– I counted –he was not alone. Two men who introduced themselves as detectives James Allen and Mark Johnson told me they were the ones assigned to my case and asked me if I would answer some questions for them to fill in some details. They were very polite. They told me that I was to be put on trial for the death of my twin brother.

His name was Bert Toms Vey. I am the person who killed him.


End file.
